


Fool

by 78424325



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-02 14:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18812479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/78424325/pseuds/78424325
Summary: What a fool, he thinks, for always taking on him regardless.Like this time.Like this time whenheis the one that is Fool.





	Fool

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leporidae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leporidae/gifts).



> For DevDev.  
> I've never done any Ephraim-Innes so far, so here goes. I wish I was a better writer.
> 
> Thank you for giving this shy, insomniac potato a chance of acquaintanceship in the midst of this vast Internet village!

He scowls for the hundredth time that day.

Technically, it does not do anything—he can feel it; his strength is waning, the dried blood giving a cake-y sense over his shoulder as the biting ache returns. It never left in the first place, sure—but prior to this they were kind enough to bandage the diagonal gash marking his shoulder and applied some ointment over it. Being a pragmatic person that he is, he takes it, anyway—after all, less pain is better than nothing at all, and he was thinking of conserving his energy as the wound slowly tamed itself.

Looking back, it is a miracle that he manages to keep his mouth shut. The wound is not merely a knife wound carved with a blade—that one, he has seen it multiple times. He has learned to recognize which one is fatal and which one that is not; even if they were to pry his presence off the training ground and the field, he would gladly share a piece of what he truly, truly thought; when it happened, he had no plan on finishing early because with the same breath he would also gladly remind them that as the heir to the throne of Frelia, he must know what his soldiers typically can expect from a battlefield.

The very last thing reminds him of his experience today. And boy, he has contemplated about it, again and again, as he lies still with his eyes open, one hand clutching on the injured shoulder. His eyebrows knit upon realizing the same damp feeling returns. Under such darkness which swallows his own hands like this, he doubts people will point out that he is not technically smiling—he is grimacing, alright, knowing well that blasted torn skin may open again.

“What’s wrong, Prince? Can’t sleep?”

He hears the taunting sound coming from the simple room where they placed him. Mustering a small smirk one more time, he still has the gall to correct himself regarding that—no, they are not ‘placing him’; they are stashing him, in fact, for they have taken him hostage.

There is that kind of sudden realization which hits you like tidal wave when you wake up, and there is the kind of realization which slowly sinks in the way a pile of flour gradually absorbs water as you knead. For this part, however, he isn’t really interested in analyzing which is which—as idle as his mind might be, he is more interested in sharpening his other senses now that visual is rendered useless. When they first threw him into this… warehouse, perhaps—he judged that there are about four crates scattering inside the room, and there is a ventilation cleft or what-have-you, guarded with iron bars but with sturdy wooden doors which can be opened from the inside. Of course procuring all this important information by having his own back roughly bumping against those crates is far from comfortable, but hey, as someone who has emerged from a literal continental war against Grado and undead creatures, this experience is still bearable.

He wishes they would at least shut up, though—had that happened, he could claim luxury.

The corner of his mouth twitches forming a cynical smile, as sharp as a blade yet as toothless as a paper tiger; at least he and this band of bandits can agree on one thing—they do aim to annoy one-another, anyway, perhaps if his predicament dictates otherwise, they could have been friends. Imagine how many mead glasses they could drink together while trying to make each other loosen guard first. He has heard them swearing in the name of everything unholy, and as entertaining as it sounds, he figures he has been too lenient for such dosage of entertainment when one of them mindlessly brought up his sister into conversation. They said they could find a hundred ways to torture him with—he could live with that. At least while these braindeads try to find a hundred ways to do so, perhaps he can prolong his life by at least a hundred minutes, pretty clement for someone who has lost his right to choose… no? Oh, he hates to be nitpicky like this, but they said, they _could_ find—and in order to _can_ , they must _try._ And this grotesque sense of humor drove him to smirk just around an hour ago—something his counterpart did not take kindly, apparently, for one of them spat at him and hammered his knuckle against his jaw. At that time, he merely scoffed—again.

“Destroy me as you please, gentlemen, but it will not change the fact that you are a bunch of dimwits.”

And apparently nothing disgruntles the crass ones than being addressed formally the way he did. Oh oh, had his jaw did not throb and ache, he would chuckle for sure. He knows this firsthand—this blue-haired crass prince—ah, sorry—king now, his self-proclaimed archrival, Ephraim of Renais. The man is deathly allergic to formalities, apparently, because Ephraim changed expression when he, with his royal entourage, paid respect post-coronation as a delegation from Frelia. Only that now the previously Sir Fellow Prince was gone, replaced by an enthroned sovereign sitting on the throne, fidgeting and looking uneasy when he bowed deeply and addressed the latter by formal title.

“Your Majesty, the King of Renais.”

“No,” at that time Ephraim mouthed to him. No? Ephraim said that a hundred times already, and for a hundred-one times, he would say yes. Of course there would always be the joy of ruffling Ephraim’s figurative feathers than the virtue of proudly refusing to just follow Ephraim even once, but he figured his pragmatism emerged more at the field than at the court. What Ephraim has to know, he thought, was that outside or inside the court, Innes of Frelia is still the regal tactician who refuses to yield.

“What’s the matter, Sire?” he purposefully asked in a deferring manner; eyes looking low at the ground, gaze fixed on Ephraim’s feet rather than the typical eye-hammering he would subtly exchange with him.

“Innes, by the gods…”

Of course Ephraim sighed. And he, smelling an open wound, casually strolled closer, whispering to the newly-crowned king. “They have no power here.”

Sure, his lips might have been too close to Ephraim’s ear at that time. Of course his tone was playful and his eyes tender. But of course he did not care—what wouldn’t he give, seeing Ephraim slumping in his big chair—oh, right, throne—appearing like he was above others when actually having to endure all the booooring sessions he dreaded for, donning royal garb he couldn’t wait to take off? How cute. How helpless. And right when he thought he was deranged enough, Ephraim gave a hand at him, which he had to take while bowing. Luxuries need a price to pay, so he begrudgingly followed suit.

Innes glances around. The room appears bigger than the first time they threw him there. Perhaps darkness has that effect, but his eyes are trained, anyway—after all he is a sniper. An excellent one as well. And perhaps he should kill time by processing what actually happened today ….

Everything went well as expected. The infantrymen he took out for a march did their drilling well. He tried rehearsing what those old books told him—professionally-trained infantry squad could bring down a cavalry squad, provided they marched well and solid, with the right weapon to hold, perhaps. Tana’s pegasus knights acted as his shadow from above—that was until he ventured deep into the forest that they began to slow down for the branches hindered their movements.

And he thought he knew his lands like the back of his hand. He could probably sketch a decent map of Frelia without having to trace with an actual map—he manages an intelligent network, the Devil be damned; even if he could not, as a strategist no vital information escapes him.

Allegedly.

He is willing to bet that no prince expects to be captured by bandits in a forestry area pretty close to the capital’s castle town, anyway. He had told Ephraim that they should go for an outing so he could proudly showcase the beauty of Frelian lands to the newly-crowned Renais king. At that time, he blatantly told Ephraim that he who only knew to sit on horseback tended to look only straight ahead, losing the chance to enjoy the scenery to the left and right.

“He who knows not to have fun is a fool,” Ephraim shrugged.

“Fool? He who manages to get a perfect view of everything is no fool, Ephie,” he returned, enjoying Ephraim’s silent agony upon being called like that. “And what happens when you keep riding forward?”

“I reach my destination?” Ephraim responds. “Slooowpoke.”

“No, _fool._ You’ll crash,” he countered. “Being able to look left and right grants you alertness.”

“Well, horseriding allows me a rescue,” Ephraim folded his arms. “Fool.”

“Alertness grants safety, fool.”

“Whatever, Innes. If you want to be foolish, your prerogative, fool.”

“Then why don’t we race? There’s more about warfare than fighting people, fool.”

“Unfair, fool. This is your land, you know it well.”

“Then you’ll start from the palace to this tavern I have marked while I start from the tavern to the palace, how about that, fool?” he unveiled the parchment a footman brought then. “You said I holed myself inside all the time. Fair enough?”

“Fool. Why must you turn everything into a competition?”

“Is that your way to say you are scared, Ephie? Fool. How come you are king?”

“… It’s not like I wanted it, excuse you,” Ephraim fumed. “Fool.”

His eyes glinted.

“You know what, Innes, yes, perhaps we should do that. If it means shutting you up, why not?”

“Fool. Thank you kindly.”

“… You already planned this from the beginning, didn’t you?” Ephraim narrowed his eyes.

“I call that being prepared.”

“I call that a fool.”

“You are not the one to decide what I call myself, Ephraim.”

“True, but I can decide for _myself_ what I call you, Innes,” Ephraim smirked. “Fool.”

He chuckles. Oh, how interesting everything has become. A commotion prompted him to rally his unit, diverting his entourage from the route he was supposed to take with Ephraim—taking him away from the agreed checkpoint, delaying him from meeting Ephraim from said point. He estimated the combat would not take long, anyway—bandits and highwaymen harassing villagers are never a foreign subject, but what he truly did not expect was it was no longer the forest he knew, nor the skies he knew because his pegasus riders were nowhere to be seen. He did not anticipate the clearing to be a bandit nest, either, for two lassos thrown from behind successfully choked the knights blue, and those in heavy armors training to be like proud General Gilliam of Frelia had a hard time to recover, more so to win a fight because those bandits wielded axes while they bore lances.

And one of those axes unceremoniously carved itself against his skin.

He told Ephraim often—he wants to be fast, to be agile, which is why he keeps himself alert all the time. He has ranged weapon, and under the concerned look of Tana—or Ephraim, come to think of it, he told them that an archer who cannot shoot is as good as dead, the way a mage who cannot cast and run may consider to start praying.

And then with fiercer tongue and sharper gaze, he stated that he was no fool. An archer who cannot anticipate the worst-case scenario where one cannot shoot or cannot march is a fool.

 _I am that fool,_ Innes thinks bitterly, recalling his escape attempts. He had proudly stood before his adversaries, not budging when they tried to confirm whether he was Frelia’s very own crown prince or not. He kept a smile when they gloated capturing him— _anything, anything for pathetic cowards like you,_ he said; eyes sharp and determined purposefully keeping his expression smug.

He recalls grabbing a sword, he recalls miscalculating the arrival of a tough lance-wielder who swallowed both his sword and dignity as a whole. He recalls thinking of the new Renais king as the lance threw the sword off his hand, which, strangely, gave him comfort. He recalls laughing when the lancer held him at the tip, with him not ceasing a beat as he looked back, all defiant and rebellious.

“You are no Ephraim.”

He recalls punching the man hard in the nose, mind again fleeting towards the Renais king he is somewhat, somewhat curious as of now—did Ephraim notice he did not reach their agreed destination in time? Did Ephraim think he ran away, or…

 _Ephraim_ _can’t read,_ he ponders, wondering if Ephraim ever trained himself in survival if at all. If Ephraim would notice the broken branches and the way he parted the grass as this cursed entourage dragged him away—at least before they locked him up in a carriage, now with tired muscles and bleeding shoulder he received because that wretched axe-wielder came for rescuing the accomplice whose nose he had punched.

He rejoices in the fact that Ephraim, allegedly, cannot read. Oh, the joy seeing Ephraim all-red and disgruntled when he would, as always, cruelly compared the Renais then-heir to the then Prince Lyon of Grado— _You like him so much, hmmm? Why don’t you try being like him just a little bit?_

“Innes, you are annoying,” Ephraim, then only fifteen, said before throwing a book at his head.

“That is not the right way to use a book,” he dodged. “Fool.”

“Judging your determination to out-asshole yourself nearly made me think that you are actually begging for my attention,” Ephraim sighed. “I _can_ read, excuse you. It’s just that I’m not an asshole, excuse _you_.”

“Fool,” he repeated to the fuming blue-haired Renais prince. “Why, you are such a fool.”

He tackled Ephraim so hard and left the library restlessly.

“Well, well, Prince!” a voice from the outside yanks him off his reminiscence. “I don’t know how you did it, but it seems a group is heading this way.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Don’t appear so arrogant,” the bandit glares at him. “You—tell me, what did YOU do?”

“No worries. Come closer?”

The bandit does as he asked. The second they are within convenient proximity, however, he hammers his sole against the bandit’s solar plexus. Clutching on the bleeding shoulder he bolts for the exit, with the bandit he paralyzes tries alerting the others of his flight, which he ceases with a plank.

“You are no Ephraim.”

_Neither am I._

He pants, feeling his biceps burning just for swinging that board. The bandit’s words are interesting enough to keep him busy, however—really? Charging heads-on like this, he cannot think of a better candidate to act like a bull than—than this person; the very Ephraim of Renais in flesh and blood.

 _Fool,_ he clicks his tongue. _Ephraim, you are a f—_

“Going somewhere, Prince?”

“Yes. Fresh air, gentlemen?” from the corner of his eyes five people approach him like ants finding a sugar cube. So he keeps his head held high, anyway—even now that knowing well he is outnumbered, disarmed, and injured. He tries to keep his mouth shut when they haul him like a sack. He tries to keep a straight face even when they taunt him, saying the only thing that still keeps him breathing is just that—the royal title, the intangible attribute he has worn since birth. And speaking of blue blood, they render to him crystal-clear—they will be glad to see if a blueblood sheds blue blood when injured.

“It seems you need to learn something, Prince,” the leader of the group says, swinging a vicious tomahawk. The very same weapon which injured his shoulder. “But we are not flowery like your kin, so demonstration will work better.”

“What a coincidence—my tongue is a meat cleaver, not perfumed jasmine, my good Sir.”

“Silence!”

He chuckles. And coughs when they shove a thick rag between his teeth, choking when rough hands equally roughly tie the ends behind his neck. Silence never feels so confining before this—at least darkness does not judge, and there is some kind of… say, mutual understanding between him and the vacuum because tranquility gives that sense of security that, if he cannot see their face, likewise they cannot see him either.

And he is to be… what—paraded in the open? Before Ephraim’s naked eyes?

… Fool.

Fool indeed.

F—

He wishes he could pretend this did not happen; yet the wooden door makes a loud thumping sound. Time? A concept. And his surrounding is no longer dark—fool.

“Innes!”

He blinks.

“Innes—answer me!”

Ephraim?

It can't be the king of Renais who stands before him with naked lance. Of course not. He has never heard of kings who carelessly march alone to save a friend. Neither does he of one who ventures deep into the heart of an adversary empire to wage guerrilla warfare while everything crashes and burns; nor does he of one who goes into battles with such brilliance, telling people that he will not pick a battle which he cannot win; meaning he is ready for everything once he deploys himself, and that people can find a refuge in him, can lean on him, can… trust him.

Trust him?

 _Fool_ , Innes smiles under the gag. Fool. Fool indeed. Of course a king will not do that. Of course he does not know a king who will. But this one standing before him is _Ephraim_ , just Ephraim; and despite not hearing a king who did such a thing, he _knows_ one.

And this one wipes his head casually; hands neatly gloved and torso protected by the typical heavy armor he wears, an armor he also begrudges for it fits his curves so well, crowning his biceps in a way he can only dream of. Fool.

Fool…

“Look at you,” Ephraim grins, mindlessly whacking yet another bandit with the stick of his lance. And Innes cannot unsee the footprints his Renais counterpart left—scattering opponents, half collapsing like stones, other half grunting in pain.

 _So you can read indeed,_ Innes muses, chuckling as Ephraim reaches to undo his bindings.

“Wow, you are injured.”

“I’m okay.”

“You aren’t, Innes.”

“Fool,” as always, he will scoff at the blue-haired counterpart. He is supposed to be Innes. Since Ephraim is being Ephraim as always—picking fights he can win, that leaves no room besides for him to be… Innes.

“Shut up, mullet man.”

“Already did.”

“Innes…” Ephraim pulls him back onto his feet at ease. He wishes he did not notice. But he is Innes, so he did, anyway. An Innes is as sharp as an eagle—a good sniper does not miss, a good strategist does not blunder. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“After you.”

“You never change, huh?” Ephraim not-so-kindly places his palm over his head, ruffling his mane. Normally he will want to put Ephraim on a choke hold, but not today. Not today. “Fool.”

“Thank you. Yes.”

“Lean on me. You can’t even walk properly.”

“I am proper, Ephraim,” he tilts his head a bit, hiding a small smile reigning on his face. “Fool.”

“Says the one who got captured.”

“Says the one who came here alone.”

“No? I rode a horse.”

“Beautiful. When is the wedding?”

“Innes—“

“Fool.”

“Lean on me, asshole,” Ephraim sighs. Innes blinks—again, feeling Ephraim’s strong arms diving under him, sweeping him off his feet at an instant. “See, your leg is bruised too.”

“That’s her name?”

“Shut up, Innes.”

“After you.”

“… Fool.”

“Likewise.”

“… Don’t scare me like that ever again, Innes.”

“Likewise.”

“Fool.”

“After you.”


End file.
